Ha H'm
by Tyello
Summary: Series of oneshot POVs describing Hornblower.
1. Ferrol

**Summary – **A retired officer remembers an encounter he had with a young Hornblower. Set after _Flying Colors_. **Rated K.**

**Disclaimer – **Horry and the Commandant belong to the brilliant C.S. Forester.

**Ferrol**

The wind blew cold on the headlands of El Ferrol. Breakers crashed white and foaming against the cliffs, whose black rocks jutted out into the salty spray. On the tip of the point stood an old man, his stringy grey hair blown straight back from his face. In the distance, he could see the forbidding iron grey of a storm, heading ever closer to the mainland. Behind him waited an attendant, standing impatiently as his charge gazed off into the distance. He waited to feel the ocean spray once more on his face, before turning to leave heavily on the cane he held at his side. Hobbling up the path, he headed back towards the compound where he had once held post as Commandant.

On the desk in his room was a pile of mail, the latest despatches from Madrid. On top lay a newspaper, already weeks old. Leafing through it, he came across an account of the events in Paris. It seemed some English captain had managed to make a fool of Napoleon, had escaped the guillotine from under the emperor's nose. The old man squinted at the name, trying to recall where he had seen it before. It was a foreign name, filled with H's and consonants playing roles they oughtn't. And yet, he was sure he had read or seen it somewhere.

He sounded it out, summoning up what remained of his weak grasp of the English language. "Hor-ah-sho. 'Oren-blore."

That seemed quite wrong. But now he could remember that it had always sounded wrong when he said it. And a face came to float before his eyes; a somber face with great dark eyes that had stared out at him from beneath a frame of curling brown hair. Hair that had been plastered to its neck one night as a voice had cracked and soared, swearing its parole.

And now he could remember the young lieutenant who had stayed in his prison those two years. Yes, he remembered him. That was the one who had sailed a ship into the middle of a Spanish fleet. The old man smiled fondly at the memory. That had been a piece of bad luck, but the boy had seemed bright enough at the time. Quite bright, as it seemed to have turned out.

The former Commandant leaned back in his chair, recalling the last time he had seen the lieutenant. It had been in the office just down the hall, when a similar pile of despatches had arrived. He had been glad for the young man, though he never would have admitted that he had been secretly hoping for such a letter. That would have been treason.

But he had felt the boy deserved more than to rot out the war years in a damp cell in El Ferrol. He had spent the time he was there pacing the cell he had been allotted, restless until the time came when he could pace the beaches instead. A mind like the one he had shown that night out in the bay was meant to be in the thick of the fighting.

The bay. The old man could remember the look in the lieutenant's eyes when he had begged permission to sail out into the storm. He had thought the boy was joking—no one in their right mind risked the Devil's Teeth in weather like this. But here was this English – _English – _seaman demanding that he be allowed to rescue _Spanish_ sailors. And in the moment when he had looked into those dark eyes, he had thought maybe there was a chance that someday their nations would be able to put aside their differences. That there might come a time when boys like this one wouldn't be forced to take command of men twice their age.

So he had let the boy go out, taking with him a handful of Galician fishermen. He hadn't expected to see any of them again and had returned to the garrison feeling weighed down with a sort of sadness for the lieutenant. So it had been with unadulterated surprise that he had welcomed them back, especially when he learned that the boy had chosen to keep his parole after having been offered a chance to return home.

The old man sighed and pushed back his chair, throwing the newspaper down onto the desk. He shuffled into the bedroom to lay down on the bed. Before closing his eyes to sleep, he smiled to himself. He could have told Napoleon that locking up that boy wouldn't work. He was more trouble than it was worth.


	2. For He's a Jolly Good Fellow

**Summary **– "Fond? That implied he was interested romantically in his captain. But now he could see she had meant that Bush would follow Hornblower anywhere. And he had." Character death. **Rated T**

**Disclaimer** – Bush and Horry are and always will be C.S. Forester's.

**For He's a Jolly Good Fellow**

_"I have always know that we die randomly . . . ." – Jacques Brel_

The explosion had come as a surprise. The idea that he might die, that he might soon be writhing in pain had not even crossed his mind when he had made ready to leave. Now he lay in the muck that was the Seine, amazed that some French bastard had managed to get him.

His hands were soaked, but he couldn't imagine what with. Certainly there wasn't that much blood in his body—his uniform felt heavy with it. His middle was ablaze with an all-consuming flame, but he didn't have the strength to see what was eating away at it. Shot couldn't have done such damage; surely there was some creature there eating his insides. He stared up at the French sky in dismay.

He wondered if it would be Hornblower who told his sisters of his death. Hornblower, whom he had known since he had been lieutenant on the _Renown_. It was ironic that the closest he had ever come to telling the man how much he had appreciated him had been as he stumbled dead drunk to his cabin. He remembered it hazily; how Hornblower had cheerfully put up with his roaring rendition of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," nearly carrying him to his bunk. Neither had ever mentioned it again.

He remembered, too, something Lady Barbara had once said to him. You are fond of him. At the time, he hadn't understood what she meant. Fond? That implied he was interested romantically in his captain. But now he could see she had meant that Bush would follow Hornblower anywhere. And he had.

Lady Barbara. He had always thought she was more Hornblower's sort of woman than Maria. Bush hadn't approved of Maria. He had been disgusted that a man like Hornblower would have allowed himself to be snared in such a way. But by the time Hornblower had met Barbara, by the time he had realized his mistake, Bush had been too far his junior to smile and say, "I told you so."

He could feel anger swelling up inside of him, a great wave of bitterness that made him grimace. This was all Hornblower's fault. It was always Hornblower's fault. It was Hornblower who sent him out to do the dirty work—under Hornblower's orders he had lost his leg; under Hornblower's orders he was lying here now in the bay bleeding his life out. And where was Hornblower? Sitting safe in his cabin, waiting for Bush to return and tell him that his plan had been brilliant, as always. Hornblower, who was a Knight of the Bath, a Colonel of the Marines, never to worry again about his pay or his home. Hornblower, who had married into the Wellesley family. Well, the brilliant, accomplished, _Commodore Hornblower_, could sit and wait. Bush wouldn't be coming back.

As quickly has the anger had come, he felt it ebb. Of course this wasn't Hornblower's fault. He hadn't known what his orders would do; he hadn't intended for things to turn out the way they had. It wasn't his fault that he was never wounded, even in the thick of battle. He hadn't chosen to be brilliant and lucky when Bush was dull and stupid. And he certainly hadn't married Barbara for her family. Even Bush, who had never known such love, could see that. And somewhere, Bush was sure that Hornblower saw him as more than a subordinate.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his wooden leg floating on the water. Hornblower had made that leg with Brown's help. In his mind's eye Bush could see them bent over it in the Count de Graçay's courtyard, arguing its length. He remembered Hornblower's frustration that it never seemed quite right, frustration that had dissolved immediately when as he watched Bush try to walk. There had always been a half smile on his face when he caught his friend, ignoring the string of blasphemies that followed them to the chair.

Now the French sky was fading before his eyes, but the pain was gone. He felt that he was floating, and thought that maybe he'd been given laudanum. They had given him laudanum and brandy when they cut off his leg. Now he could feel tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He couldn't understand where they were coming from—Bush hadn't cried in years. But he was lying there alone – so alone – where he had fallen out of the boat. All he wanted was to see Hornblower once more. To hear his "ha-h'm" as he struggled for something to say. To hear his friend's voice crack and soar like a boy's as he yelled over the guns one last time.

He wanted Hornblower's hand to squeeze his, as it had when the French had taken them off to Paris for execution. He longed to open his eyes and find himself in an army hospital, with a delighted Lt. Hornblower grinning at him from over a basket of pawpaws and pineapples. He had sometimes wondered who had eaten the pineapple that day. He suspected it had been Hornblower, who had been raving about them, and not he.

He wondered what Hornblower would say when he heard the news. He could almost hear the butcher's bill. ". . . . William Bush, Captain . . . ." William Bush, Captain. It echoed in his head, over and over again. William Bush, Captain. Captain because he had been friends with Hornblower. Else, he might have ended up a lieutenant on half-pay, or rotting out his days in a French prison. Or leaking out his life in some other bay.

Everything had gone dark now. He couldn't hear the water lapping against the bank where he lay, couldn't see the sky above him. In the moment before he lost all consciousness he prayed that wherever Hornblower ended up in the next life, he would be as well. Because he would follow his friend to the deepest pits of hell if need be. Even the most brilliant need a shoulder to lean on from time to time.


End file.
